


In A Band

by versaphile



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-14
Updated: 2010-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackpool, circa 1990. John and David and music and love. drho requested David and John in a music store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John leans against the display stand with as much insouciance as he can muster. The rock star pose, perfected with endless practice at his bathroom mirror. "I'm in a band," he says. "With me mates."

The boy's eyes go wide. " _Really?_ " he squeaks, then squirms with self-consciousness. His long blond hair falls over his glasses, and he brushes it back. "Ah, what do you play?"

"Rock," John says, as if he would play anything else. "Like the Beatles." 

The association has the desired effect, as the boy clutches at his stack of cassettes. Pet Shop Boys. The Housemartins. Simple Minds. "Do you play around here?" he asks, his brogue thickening as his voice climbs higher. 

"Yeah, Friday nights, Saturdays." John imagines the boy in a dark, smoky club, staring up at him, and suddenly he can't resist. "But we practice all the time. Wouldn't mind an audience..."

The boy shifts, unconsciously stepping closer. He's taller than John, but younger, and thin as a rail. John glances again at his long, slim fingers, the dark plumpness of his lips against Scot-pale skin. If he were a girl, this would be easier, but this boy is nothing like a girl. John wonders if kissing is the same, and his insides tumble at the thought of finding out.

"Here, let me..." John says, suddenly fumbling for a scrap of paper, a bitten-up pen. He scribbles his phone number, feeling anything but casual, feeling clumsy and obvious and shy. He thrusts the paper into the pocket of the boy's jacket and steps back, glancing at his watch. "Got to go. Call me tonight." He wonders why the air seems so thin.

"Tonight," the boy echoes, eyes locked upon John, and then suddenly he smiles, a broad, stupidly wonderful grin that makes John want to kiss him over and over. And then he gives a little jump of surprise. "Oh! Your name. You never--"

"John," John says, with a shrug. He gives a nervous laugh.

"I'm David," the boy says. David says. 

"Nice name," John says, and silently curses himself for saying something so stupid. "David," he says, as if trying out the sound. "I'll see you, yeah?"

"Yeah," David says, and watches as he goes.


	2. Chapter 2

John shows up to play with his guitar under his arm, and a surprisingly bouncy David at his side. The guys are curious – John isn't known for bringing an audience to rehearsal. But Greg hands David a beer, Dean slaps him on the back, and everything's cool for the night. At one point David even joins in, his long fingers playing hesitantly over the strings of John's guitar. John catches himself staring, and glares down at his own half-empty beer, feeling utterly found-out.

Not that there's anything to find out, yet. Yet.

It's late when they finish; John's fingertips are sore and his head buzzes from one too many beers. Working up the courage, drowning that voice in his head that keeps asking him what the fuck he thinks he's doing. He likes birds, not blokes; he's always looked but looking's just that, it doesn't _count_. But looking at David makes him want to do more than look. It makes him _need_ to do more than look. To pull off that stupid oversized shirt and muss that floppy hair, to press skin against skin and mouths and tongues and--

He has to stop himself, because he suddenly realizes that Greg is watching him watching David. And there's some light of realization in him that John didn't want to see. 

"Don't say it," John mutters at him, glaring a warning.

Greg holds up his hands in surrender. "Didn't say anything," he replies. He glances over at David, who is, for some reason, tidying up, and humming a Magic Alex tune under his breath.

John gives a smirking laugh, quiet but somehow already fond. 

"You know what you're doing, mate?" Greg asks, quiet and suddenly sober.

"Shut it," John hisses, angry at the intrusion, the presumption. He crosses his arms moodily. Greg swats him on the shoulder. "Oi! I _said_ \--"

The soft humming stops, and John realizes David has gone still, watching them, an empty bottle held halfway to the bin bag. Making a scene... John will hate himself if his temper ruins this. Fuck.

"Sorry," John mutters, waving them both off. "'s late. I'll see you tomorrow," he says to Greg, with enough emphasis that it translates to _Fuck off, you're cramping my style._

Greg gives him one last look, worried and curious and annoyed, and then John and David are alone. 

"Hey," John says, and smiles at him.

"Hey," David says, and suddenly he's right there, as if drawn to John like iron to a magnet. And John can see that David is just as nervous as he is right now, that they're on the same page, even if they're both still learning the chords. His nervousness eases and sharpens at the same time, knowing this is real, this is happening. 

"So, um," David says, and licks his lip nervously. His hair is mussed from the long night, his glasses smudged and slipped down his nose. In a moment of insanity, John reaches up and pushes them back into place. His stomach flips in disbelief, flares with desire. Oh god, what is he doing?

John freezes, mouth open in shock at himself. And so it's David who makes the first move, David who closes that last, small distance, who leans in so slowly, so certain. It's David who kisses him, whose hands grip John's arms as if to anchor himself to the Earth. And John is frozen, frozen, the ice of him cracking slowly as David's kiss is sweet and fumbling and hungry. And just as David hesitates, as he pulls back because John hasn't reacted, hasn't kissed him back, John grabs him, one arm around his narrow waist, one hand at his hair, and _now_ he kisses, now there is no doubt about this, about them, about tonight. 

When they stop, they're both flushed, breathless, wide-eyed. Staring at each other in wonder and lust. Hormones and adrenaline rushing and John looks down and they're both hard, tenting their trousers, and David's hands are trembling. 

"Is this..." David begins, faltering and so vulnerable. 

"Been with girls," John mumbles, feeling hot and cold, feeling shameless and ashamed.

David gives a high, nervous laugh. Shakes his head. "I haven't, I..." His eyes are so huge and dark and lovely, and so afraid. 

John suddenly realizes that he will be David's first, his _first_ first, and it's wrong that it should be a fumble in some grotty basement. "My flat," he says, head spinning, heart dizzy. "C'mon." Squeezes David's trembling hand and pulls him, drags him out into the cool, dark night. And then David is running with him, laughing, giggling like a fool, their feet pounding on the road. 

In an alleyway, he grabs David and kisses him, kisses him. Madness. Pure madness, but so glorious. Better than getting high, getting drunk. He could get addicted to this so easily. They grin at each other in the shadows and in no time at all John is fumbling with his keys, bloody keys, cheap lock always sticking. They practically tumble into the flat, and John slams the door shut, locks it, and turns just in time to be kissed again, pressed between David's thrumming body and the door with its peeling paint. 

"Never done this before," David says, breathless, and laughs at himself. "Obviously. I mean, I never thought..." He shakes his head, bemused at himself, at this moment. Then he goes very, very quiet, because John just pulled off his shirt, and is standing there, his chest bare. David's eyes are huge in the darkness, his breathing quick and shallow. 

"It's all right," John says, softly. Somehow it helps, being the experienced one. It gives him back some fragment of control, over himself, over what is about to happen. He can be brave for David, and the thought makes him want to laugh and cry and kiss him over and over and over. Something strange is happening to him, even stranger than he could have expected, and the only way to understand it is through this boy, this man. 

David smiles, and it's so goofy and beautiful that nothing else matters. It's all so simple, when John sees that smile.

In the small bedroom, they each fumble off their own clothes. They stand facing each other in the moonlight, the streetlight, the flash of neon. Naked, aroused, the space between them thick with electricity. David's eyes are everywhere upon him, drinking him in, memorizing him as if he might vanish in the next moment. John kneels upon the narrow bed, and David follows him, pulled along.

The instant they touch, everything is a blur of skin and mouths and hands and cocks. It's rough and fumbling but so eager, so certain. The bed creaks and groans as they thrust and rut against each other, as they twist and turn, entwining like snakes, barely keeping from falling off. There's no elegance to this, no form, but neither cares. The only thing that matters is more, more, _more_ , until they both collapse, panting, shaking, thighs wet and sticky. 

They cling to each other, speechless, stunned. John's mind is racing underneath the haze of afterglow, trying to understand this, trying to figure out how this is a part of himself. Trying to understand how he could have waited so long, when it would be like this. A fool, that's what he is: a fool for waiting so long, a fool for giving in. 

"McDonald," David says, suddenly, giggling again. 

"What?"

"My last name. I never told you. McDonald." David grins at him, and he must be as overwhelmed as John as right now, but he's so _calm_. 

"David McDonald," John says, utterly bemused, and suddenly the fear is dulled, the world not quite so terrifyingly strange. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," David says, with all the arrogance of the newly defiled. He leers at John, an utterly filthy leer, and then flings himself over John. Kisses him, lazy and wet, and sighs, contented. And then goes utterly limp.

"Did you just fall asleep?" John asks, and his answer is David's soft and steady breathing. "Berk," John mutters, and pushes David half-off. "Unbelievable," John breathes, but can't help but smile. 

John lies awake for a while, watching David sleep. It's soothing, and somehow it makes him feel that everything will turn out all right. Somehow. John smoothes down David's wild hair, takes off his crooked glasses, folds them and puts them on the shelf where they'll be safe. 

"David McDonald," John murmurs, and David stirs in his sleep. Smacks his lips, and then goes still again. John turns away, his chest tight and pained. He slips from the bed and leans his head out the window, breathing the cool air, but it doesn't soothe him. 

He thinks about tomorrow, about consequences, about facing his friends and his dad and everything seems impossible. But he thinks about never seeing David again, about not being able to keep this, to keep him, and he feels like he'll die, as if it will cut out some essential part of him to lose David now. It hurts, it hurts, and he understands what all the love songs tried to say, what he simply play-acted before. He understands what it means to fall in love, and it's nothing like he thought it would be. It's better, and it's worse; it's the whole world crashing around him and lifting him up at the same time. 

It's too much for him to face. Not tonight, not alone. He thinks about David's calmness, and feels certain that David will know what to do, that together they can find a way. But not tonight. He crawls back into bed, pulling David's arms around him, and David squeezes, smiles in his sleep. John kisses him, once and gentle, and closes his eyes, and knows they will hold each other until dawn.


End file.
